


To hell and back

by Ice20



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Doctors & Physicians, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Physical Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 06:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15903138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice20/pseuds/Ice20
Summary: "[...] Screams. He heard screaming. Someone was screaming, loudly, incessantly, so hard that their voice was becoming hoarse. He heard screaming, and then understood. It was him. He was screaming. There was blood on his face. Pain – everywhere. He kept screaming. Then everything became black, and he passed out.§§§Breaking news: Real Madrid star and Croatia NT captain involved in serious car accident. Conditions still unknown. [..]"





	To hell and back

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: No wife and children for Luka in this universe (though they all have their role in the story, you’ll see). And since I like to put into use my poetic license, Zlatko is Luka’s emergency contact because he’s the NT’s coach, together with Luka’s agent.  
> A/N: this story begins during the summer breaks. The players are the same, just slightly younger. Let’s say, three years younger than they actually are? I imagine Luka being thirty at the beginning of this story. Ronaldo is still in RM. Everything else is still the same.  
> A/N; I’m not a doctor, and I apologize for any eventual inaccuracies you may find. I did my best, but this is a work of fiction – just a friendly reminder.  
> A/N: as usual: I’m not a native English speaker and I don’t have a beta reader. Sorry for any typos; I proofread this at least twice.  
> A/N: this all started with ONE scene that came to my mind. I swear I don’t know what happened, how it became such a monster! Anyway, I hope you won’t find it boring and you’ll enjoy it. Let me know!

Screams. He heard screaming. Someone was screaming, loudly, incessantly, so hard that their voice was becoming hoarse. He heard screaming, and then understood. It was him. He was screaming. There was blood on his face. Pain – everywhere. He kept screaming. Then everything became black, and he passed out.

§§§

Breaking news: Real Madrid star and Croatia NT captain involved in serious car accident. Conditions still unknown.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**13.45 - Suba: Ivan, have you heard? You know something more?**

**13.47 - Ivan: Heard what?**

**13.47 - Suba: …Maybe you should turn on the tv.**

**13.48 - Ivan: What channel?**

**13.49 - Suba: Any one.**

**13.55 - Suba: Ivan?**

**13.57 - Suba: IVAN!**

**13.58 - Ivan: Which hospital?**

**13.59 - Suba: Don’t know.**

**13.59 - Ivan: I’m calling Zlatko.**

§§§

His eyelids fluttered open. He was moving. No – someone was moving him. Everything was blurry. Nothing hurt anymore. He passed out again.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**14.07 - Ivan: He’s not answering.**

**14.08 - Suba: Domo messaged me. He asks to be kept updated.**

§§§

Breaking news: Luka Modric hit by hit-and-run driver and left unconscious on the side of the street. Witnesses speak of horrific scene.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**14.38 - Ivan: I reached Zlatko. The emergency room called him. He’s already there. Here is the hospital. I’m leaving immediately.**

**14.40 - Suba: On my way. I notified everyone.**

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**15.02 - Gareth: Sese, is it true? I’m seeing it on the news here at home.**

**15.03 - Sergio: I’m seeing it on tv right now. Spanish reporters are citing Croatin ones as sources, so I don’t know how much is real.**

**15.03 - Gareth: Shit!**

**15.04 - Sergio: I’m calling Mateo. He’s over there for the holidays, he will know.**

**15.05 - Gareth: Keep me updated please.**

**15.06 - Sergio: Will do.**

§§§

Everyone was gathered in the small unused room that the hospital staff had given them to use. It was little more than a storage room with a few chairs brought in by orderlies, but at least it was quiet. All of them were there – Luka’s teammates, the crew.

Almost the entirety of the national team wandering in the waiting room of the hospital had caused way too many people to walk up to them to ask for a picture or an autograph instead of focusing on their real needs, despite the highly inappropriate time and place – the kid with the wrist in a brace, the mom with the sick screaming toddler, the old man on a wheelchair and blood everywhere on his arms, the woman with the crutches and a suspicious-looking black eye. And a few of the orderlies and nurses, too. Then, the first journalists had arrived with their flashing cameras and no respect for anything or anyone, and with them the hospital security. In the end, they had been ushered inside this room, far from indiscreet eyes and from causing any more chaos.

And in this room, so ordinary, they waited.

Everyone looked strangely serious, and they all were silent in their worry. Some of them walked up and down nervously, other sat down. A few of the staff slipped outside to take a smoke from time to time, and they all drank the terrible coffee of the vending machine down the corridor. Anything would do, to try and make time move a bit faster.

The doctors couldn’t give them any information, they were still operating. Doing their best to save the patient, had said the nurse, matter-of-factly. So, they were left with nothing to do but worry and wait. Because that wasn’t just another patient, not for them at least. He was a friend.

They waited.

§§§

Breaking news: sources inside the hospital talk about difficult operation started more than four hours ago and still going on for champion Luka Modric.

§§§

“What’s taking them so long?” grumbled Dejan, just as the door opened.

Everybody who had been sitting stood immediately, Zlatko taking a step forward. “Any news, doctor?”

The doctor was a tiny woman with a severe, petite face and short blonde air. Her dark eyes were deep and intelligent, speaking of great competence despite the woman’s relatively young age.

A tense silence pervaded the room. Not a single sound could be heard.

“He’s out of danger.”

Everybody let out a sigh of relief. Danijel and Sime both sat down, taking their head into their hands and squeezing their eyes. Dejan’s hand found Sime’s shoulder and squeezed it, while Domo patted Ivan’s back and Mario unclenched his fists for the first time since he’s arrived, revealing a myriad of small cuts all over his palms. Mateo was quick to conceal the few tears that escaped his eyes while they all hugged each other.

“Thank you doctor. Oh my, thank you,” Zlatko breathed, shaking the woman’s hand with gratitude. “When can we see him?” he asked. “And what about his recovery?”

A shadow obscured the doctor’s face. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“That’s a different story.”

§§§

Breaking news: Modric’s surgery is finally over after lasting almost five hours, yet his conditions remain serious. An official note from the hospital will be released tomorrow morning.

§§§

Luka Modric put into induced coma after being involved in tragic accident. Read more here.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**18.45 - Marcelo: Any news?**

**18.48 - Sergio: Mateo texted me this morning. He’s still sleeping.**

§§§

Voices.

Distant. Muffled. Slipping away.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**11.09 - Cristiano: How’s Luka doing?**

**11.10 - Mateo: They should try to wake him again today. Let’s hope he won’t fight them again.**

**11.12 - Cristiano: Please let us know. Sese’s worried sick. So’s everyone else.**

§§§

Voices.

Nearer, this time. Clearer.

§§§

He opened his eyes. They couldn’t function properly, everything was out of focus.

His head was throbbing in what must have been a quite painful way, but Luka couldn’t really feel it, and it was okay.

A woman’s kind hand was on his face.

“Welcome back, Mr. Modric,” she smiled gently.

 _Why?_ , he wondered. _Where had he gone?_

The woman was inspecting something on the side of his head. He hadn’t noticed her moving.

_Who was she?_

He blinked owlishly, making a questioning sound, and she patted his cheek softly.

“Go back to sleep, Mr. Modric. You need to regain your strength.”

He did as he was told.

§§§

Ping! One new message **.**

**09.16 – Mateo: Sese, he woke up for a few minutes!**

§§§

Luka opened his eyes. He felt numb, his mind was slow.

A white ceiling was the first thing he took in, and a repeated beep-beep was the first sound he heard.

His head was still throbbing, this time more excruciatingly. He couldn’t feel anything else besides this ache, it was almost as if he was floating in a body that was not his own. He couldn’t feel his limbs, couldn’t feel his body. Couldn’t feel anything, really.

For a moment, he worried.

Then, he fell back asleep.

§§§

Breaking news: football star awakens after a week of medically induced coma. Luka Modric has been involved in a dreadful accident seven days ago, when he was hit by a still unidentified driver as he was walking to the grocery store. The police are looking for a black minivan with a red bumper, with poor results as of today. 

§§§

He awoke again, this time more alert.

His eyes roamed around the room, taking in what he could without moving his head. Nobody was with him, even though there was a chair in a corner with a newspaper on it. A monitor was beeping, the same sound he had already heard twice before.

_When was before?_

Something told him at least a few days priors. The stubble on his chin was itching, and Luka tried to raise his hand to scratch it, but something in his muscles wasn’t right, and in his coordination too, because it took him a massive effort to raise his hand only to have it missing his jaw and hitting his neck instead. And then it stood there, because Luka had clearly spent all the energy he could momentarily dispose of in that futile attempt.

Luka resumed his study of the room. Plain white walls, a window with pale gray curtains. He was laying in a bed, with sheets covering him from his toes up to his ribs. It was a normal hospital room.

 _Hospital. That’s where he was_. _But why?_

There was no pain to help him identify the reason of his current visit to this place, probably because of the clean liquid dropping slowly from a sack into a tube and then into his arm. Or maybe that was some sort of saline solution only, and the numbing element was coming directly from the tubes he could feel running on his stubbled cheeks and into his nose. He could feel other tubes too, in much more private places he wasn’t comfortable knowing someone had touched while he was unconscious, and it made him shiver despite not being cold.

He couldn’t feel anything below his pelvis though.

Why couldn’t he feel his legs?

He tried to move his toes, but wasn’t sure they were responding, no movement detected by his clouded brain.

His breath hitched, coming in short, panicked gasps. His heart rate spiked, and the beeping sound intensified sonorously, sinisterly, alerting the medical personnel of his finally awoken state. Three professionals in white coats rushed into his room, pointing lights in his eyes, prodding and probing, urging him to do some sort of breathing exercise to calm down, to no avail.

Then a small woman Luka’d already seen before arrived, and their eyes locked. He could read bad news in them, and he let out incoherent questioning sounds, his throat hurting with the effort.

They sedated him.

§§§

Leaks about Luka Modric’s real conditions. Read a nurse’s testimony here.

See also: Will the Croatian champion recover? Read the opinion of our expert traumatologist.

§§§

The woman’s name was Ema Bosnic.

She was the surgeon who had operated him for more than four hours.

He had been hit by a car.

She had saved his life.

He didn’t remember anything.

That had been a week ago

§§§

The doctor had been clear.

Five broken bones and a badly fractured clavicle, bruises more or less everywhere, sprained right wrist. Broken ligaments in his left knee, broken left ankle in three different points, multiple fractures and torn muscles on all of his left leg.

His nerves had been affected by the accident, too. He could still move his left leg, order his muscles to flex, but they couldn’t respond as fast as they did before. Somehow, somewhere, the message was damaged in the journey from his brain to his nerve endings. It was something that could be fixed, they said, but the damage was there and could only be contained, not erased.

He would have to undergo a few more surgeries in the near future to take care of that.

And this wasn’t to mention the surgery he had already endured. Brain surgery. Those two words were enough to give him the creeps.

He had hit his head, hard, twice – as he had been ran over, and as he had fallen. An intracranial hematoma had forced the doctors to all but drill a hole in his head to relieve the pressure on his brain as soon as he’d been rushed here. They had almost lost him twice during that operation: he had flatlined, his heart had stopped pumping the blood as it should have done. They had to essentially resuscitate it, hence some of the bruised signs on his tornso. He had needed three sacks of blood to reintegrate the one he had lost.

The brain surgery at least explained the throbbing pain behind his eyes that had been there every single time he had regained consciousness so far.

It was understandable, after such a trauma. Normal, even. And, more significant, it was permanent – of course, the pain could vary in its degree of intensity, but the headaches would still be there, always. The doctor warned him: headaches and migraines were something he would have to learn to live with on a daily basis from now on, as well as light and noise sensibility. Epilepsy was a less probable but still very concerning new issue, a great risk for him, and they were monitoring him closely for any signs that could present.

Luka couldn’t speak for a moment, struggling to take everything is. He couldn’t feel, couldn’t understand – and not because of the painkillers, this time.

Then it hit him.

A hole in his head.

Coma.

New surgeries.

Debilitating headaches, always, every day, every minute of his life from now on.

At least momentarily, he had to shit and pee himself and wait for someone to clean up the mess for him because he was bedridden, and would still be for a long time.

He couldn’t get up from his bed.

He would have to take medications.

He would have to do physical therapy – excruciatingly painful, and tiring, and frustrating.

And all that, just to walk again. Maybe. In six to eight months – if his recovery was fast and he was lucky.

It was very possible that he would never be able to play again.

No playing. No football.

Luka screamed.

§§§

“How is he?”

“I don’t know, he was sleeping.”

§§§

Luka Modric recover expected to be extremely long. Who will take his place on the pitch? His agent refuses to comment.

§§§

A knock on the door awoke Luka from his dozing off.

It was early afternoon, and the hospital room was bathed in a suffused light. The smartly-dressed man entered it, smiling briefly at its occupant. The sight of his employer in that bad was hard to take in.

“Hello, Luka. It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Hi Ivano. Good, thank you,” he managed to say with a light, fake smile.

Ivano stared at him for a minute, clearly unconvinced, before deciding to let it go for now, and went to grab the lone chair in the corner.

Ivano had been Luka’s agent ever since the very beginning, managing his interests and his career in the best way possible. He was only ten years older than him, with a degree in economics from a fancy English university whose name Luka couldn’t remember. He was a nice person – a bit cold compared to the Croat, maybe because of his half-British heritage and upbringing, but Luka considered him a good friend. He was a bit squeamish, though, and would easily faint at the sight of blood or anything like that, so Luka didn’t take it personally when Ivano circumnavigated the bed to put the chair beside it, careful to avoid the side where the bags full of Luka’s body fluids hang.

“You don’t look so pale anymore.”

“You saw me… before?”

“Yes, a couple of days ago. After they rose you from the coma the first time. I came to visit you with Zlatko, but you were sleeping.”

“Oh,” Luka squirmed, uncomfortable with the thought of his agent and his coach seeing him like this. Vulnerable, broken. “So, uh, how is everyone?” he asked to change the topic of the conversation.

“You were in a coma for a week, and you ask how everyone else is?” Ivano laughed incredulous. Even after all these years, Luka still managed to surprise him with his occasional awkwardness. He patted his hand briefly. “Everybody’s fine; worried sick about you, but otherwise fine. Zlatko is keeping the guys updated, and I’m doing as much with the Real Madrid higher ups.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s my job,” Ivano shrugged. It wasn’t only that, they both knew it, and it just went unsaid.

“What are you telling them?”

Ivano took a few moments to carefully form his thoughts before answering. The doctors had warned him that Luka’s conditions were still critical, and even if his body was slowly recovering, his mind was still delicate, both because of the head injury and the impact that the news regarding his current conditions had had. Yet, Ivano had never lied to his client before, and decidedly wouldn’t start now. So he looked at Luka, studying his face intently before he let out a sigh.

“I’m doing my best to reassure the club that you’re fine, that you’ll recover swiftly-”

“But that’s not true,” Luka interjected, darkly and matter of factly. Ivano knew that the doctors had told him about his situation. He nodded.

“No, it’s not.”

“How long ‘till they decide to replace me?”

A moment of silence.

“…They already did.”

§§§

“I know these are horrible circumstances. Believe me, I do, and I would prefer not to remove Luka’s name from the list of our active players. But it’s necessary, everything considering, I agree with our managers on this point. He won’t be able to come back for many months – that is, if he ever comes back. His manager informed me that his circumstances aren’t the best, and currently the doctors can’t tell how the situation will evolve,” Zidane said to the group gathered in the conference room. They were his best players, the ones who made Real Madrid so special. “So, all of you, I ask you to do your best with whoever I will choose as our midfielder for the next games, to take Luka’s place.”

He saw them all shaking their heads, scowling, angry at his words. He could understand them – they all loved Luka, and he did, too – yet this was something that, willy-nilly, they would have to come to terms with.

Football could be an unforgiving, cruel mistress sometimes.

§§§

  
“I spoke to the doctors today,” Zlatko informed the team.

It had been two weeks since that dreadful incident happened, and none of them had seen Luka yet. They all went to the hospital in turns, but during the first few days Luka had been isolated because of his comatose conditions, and later he had just kept sleeping, all the time. Only recently he had begun staying awake for longer, and Zlatko had had the opportunity to talk to him briefly yesterday. Luka’s manager, Ivano, already did the day prior. They had both been shocked at the sight.

As for the rest of the team, the doctors had been reluctant to let them into the room without Luka’s prior written consent. In fact, only Zlatko and Ivano were on the list of Luka’s emergency contacts, but the rest of them were not, and it didn’t matter that everyone who liked football at least a little bit knew they were all Luka’s friends; there were still rules to be followed. Today, though, Zlatko had called for an informal meeting with the whole team because there was good news to share, finally. Also, as the team’s coach, he felt it was his duty to keep his players informed. Especially considering that they were not only Luka’s teammates, but most importantly his friends, his family.

“What did they say?” Subasic asked sharply. Everybody knew it was particularly difficult for him, who had been friends with Luka ever since they were kids.

“He’s getting better, sleeping a little less, his doctor said. He stays awake for longer lengths of time. He’s lucid, and he knows what happened. And he consented to add you to the list of allowed visitors, the hospital is making an exception for us.”

“Thank God,” Vedran murmured, and his words were echoed by the rest of the team. There were a lot of loud cheers and pats on the shoulders, the moral finally lifting after so many days of grim news.

“Can we go visit him then?” Ivan asked for good measure.

“Yes. The hospital said they have received Luka’s permission today.” They all cheered again. “But, please, try not to overwhelm him. The doctor suggests short visits, and only two or three people for a few minutes each day.”

Everybody nodded, thankful for that small and yet so vital mercy.

“Yes, yes, of course we understand,” Sime said.

“We will talk and decide when to go, we can coordinate ourselves,” Perisic was quick to assure him, and had it been a different situation, with different circumstances, then Zlatko would have been pleasantly happy to have such a cooperative, united team, with nobody causing any trouble and everybody eager to listen and do as he said for once.

“When can we go?” asked Domo.

§§§

Today, Luka ate his first solid meal.

A cup of tea and three biscuits. Nothing fancy, still probably it was the best thing he ever tasted. It had been seventeen days since the accident, two days since he underwent another surgery to his left knee, and he was starting to be awake for longer lengths of time.

Yesterday, he had asked to shave, and a nurse had done it for him. He’d also sponge bathed him, careful not to jostle him and to avoid any area covered with bandages – almost half of his body, that is. He’d been very kind, keeping on a steady chatter about his newborn daughter and recounting all the silly expressions she made every time he came home to her, in order to distract Luka from his embarrassment when he approached his most private parts.

Luka’d found himself almost smiling at least once, and then crying without a particular reason for an hour. The man had said nothing, squeezing his shoulder non-judgmentally. Luka’d been told it was the head trauma, to expect his moods to change for apparently no reason, and also it was realistic to believe that the fact that he had a lot to face and process – the injuries, his forced immobilization – were contributing to his admittedly delicate state of mind.

Today, was also the day his teammates would be allowed their first visit. Luka was extremely anxious.

Zlatko had insisted that he agreed on seeing them – or better, to have them see him – and the doctors had deemed it a good idea, too. Luka himself wasn’t so sure, and had accepted on the condition that they stayed only briefly. His newfound reluctancy to see his friends had surprised him, yet he couldn’t seem to find the strength to fight it.

Luka was afraid. He wanted to see them. The didn’t want them to see him like this. He wanted to talk about their imminent return to their clubs. He didn’t want to think about not being able to return to his own club. He wanted to recount the good old days with them. He didn’t want to be reminded those days were perhaps over for him.

He waited.

§§§

Exclusive: see the pictures of Croatian footballers entering the hospital to visit Luka Modric, still bed-ridden after car accident.

§§§

“I’m nervous,” Ivan said, adjusting his shirt for the tenth time in five minutes. It was silly, he knew Luka wouldn’t care less about his clothes, and still he couldn’t help it.

Danijel nodded in silent agreement, biting his nail and forcing himself to stop, and Mateo only patted his shoulder.

“There it is,” Danijel mumbled, inhaling sharply when they approached the room.

Mateo knocked gently, and opened the door. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight that awaited them.

Luka’s right forearm and his left ankle were in a cast. There were heavy bandages all over the rest of his left leg, up where they couldn’t see them, covered by the bedsheet; a bump could be clearly seen in proximity to the area occupied by his knee. Bruises on his right arm, on his collarbone in the parts that were exposed to the view and not covered by other bandages. Down the side of his bed were a couple of sacks half-full with corporal fluids, and tubes ran everywhere – in his arms, underneath the hospital gown. His skin was pale, more than usual. Dark bags were under his eyes, almost like he hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past weeks. And then there was his head, half-shaven and covered in heavy bandages that had yellowy spots on them. That was the most difficult thing to look at.

“That bad, uh?” Luka asked, a forced smile on his lips.

“No! No, absolutely. We’re just extremely happy to finally see you awake, that’s all,” Mateo hurried to say, walking over to gently hug Luka, as much as he could at least.

“You’re not a good liar,” Luka replied, and they were all immediately reminded that this was the same man who had been made team captain not only because of his abilities as a footballer, but also because of his quick brain.

Ivan walked up to the bed to hug Luka, too, while Danijel only took his left hand in his and squeezed it tightly.

“You scared me to death,” the goalkeeper said.

Luka squeezed his hand back.

“Sorry,” he apologized, and Danijel smiled for the first time in three weeks.

“But now you’re okay, that’s all that matters,” Ivan added with a smile. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time, I just know it!”

Luka smiled back, but it was dim and bitter. Because it wasn’t true, they all knew. They all pretended for the following ten minutes as if everything was actually fine.

He listened to them talking about their teammates and Domo’s latest shenanigans, but didn’t contribute much to the conversation. They left as he began feeling sleepy again.

§§§

Luka wasn’t okay, far from it.

He didn’t say it out loud, not that day nor the following ones, when slowly the whole team decided to swing by to say hello and ask him how he felt. He didn’t reply to that, either, not even when it was Ivano or Zlatko asking him – and if they forced his answer, he simply lied or feigned tiredness. Every time he saw them, it hurt a bit more. His next operation was impending, this time to hopefully fix his ankle. It was the first of two surgeries he would have to face, the first one more invasive and the second much more delicately focused on the small details; the second wasn’t scheduled for another couple of months at least. He would have to begin a light physical therapy first, and see how it went.

After the last group of his friends were gone, and he had seen not only the whole team but also the majority of the staff (physiotherapists, etc), he asked to talk to his doctor.

He had the allowed visit time shortened to only an hour, two days a week, and Zlatko or Ivano only.

§§§

New surgery for Croatia NT’s captain. Read more here.

A week has gone by with only Coach Dalic visiting Luka Modric for a short time. Has Modric been officially excluded from the national team? Read our expert’s theory here.

§§§

“They’re all worried about you. They had to go back to their respective clubs, but not a day passes by without every single one of them asking about you.”

“Tell them to focus on their training. It’s much more important.”

“They would be much more serene if you allowed them to visit.”

“They’ve left, you said it.”

“They could be here in a few hours with a plane during their first free day, you know? Please, Luka.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, coach. I can’t.”

§§§

Real Madrid to face its first match without the Croat midfielder. 

§§§

Luka watched the match on tv while he slowly ate the soup a nurse had brought him. His right arm was free of its cast, finally, and he could raise and lower the tv’s volume without pausing from his meal. He had to rub at his temple more often than he would have liked, the screen’s bright colors exacerbating his headache, but he didn’t want to miss this game. No more than he already was, with his absence, at least.

He saw a lot of banners with his name on them and well-wishes written in Spanish, English, even a few in tentative Croatian, and he smiled faintly thinking about his fans. They were the best.

Then the game begun.

It was a disaster. Nobody was up to their normal standards - far from it. They all looked like a bunch of amateurs. Gareth seemed spent, and Marcelo looked misplaced every time the cameras found him. Cristiano’s attempt at a goal was timid at best. The whole team’s concentration simply wasn’t there, and their game resented from it.

Real Madrid lost. Badly.

Luka switched off the tv after three minutes of seeing his friends’ sad faces. He couldn’t bear it. It seemed like he couldn’t bear a lot of things, these days.

He felt like it was his fault. He wasn’t there, he couldn’t support them. His ankle, still wrapped under clean bandages after his surgery of a few days priors, itched to be scratched. His fingers twitched with the desire to do it, but he refrained himself.

His cellphone – a new one Ivano had brought to replace the irreparably damaged one also involved with Luka himself in the accident – began beeping furiously with text messages from his friends in Spain within an hour after the end of the game and the following routinely interviews. They were asking how he was today and if he’d seen the match, sending him virtual hugs and kisses. Luka delated them all and switched off the phone.

Also, his head was beginning too hurt way too much.

§§§

Real Madrid played again.

Real Madrid lost again.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**21.07 - Marcelo: Hey man, did you see that? We sucked. So sorry you had to witness such a shameful game - again.**

**21.35 - Marcelo: We wanted to win for you. We had already prepared a banner. Sergio punched the wall, he was that angry. He’s lucky he didn’t break anything.**

**21.53 - Marcelo: Hey man, are you there? Is this still your number? I’m a bit worried, you never reply to any of us.**

**22.07 - Marcelo: Well, I wish you good night. An old man like you needs his beauty sleep =P Really, call me man, I miss you.**

§§§

Real Madrid played again.

Real Madrid lost again.

Luka stopped watching their games.

§§§

Real Madrid: the end of an era? The team seems lost without Luka Modric. Third loss in a row for Spain’s reigning champions. 

§§§

“Did you hear from Luka?” Bale asked.

Marcelo shook his head in denial. He was always so sad, these days.

“I tried to call him, his phone is always switched off,” Sergio said.

“He hasn’t replied to any of my messages, either,” added Cristiano.

“Mateo, did you have more luck?” Isco asked.

Mateo shook his head. “I told you, he took everyone off the list of allowed visitors. Zlatko says he looks down – like, depressed or something. Also, he should begin the physical therapy soon, but Luka doesn’t talk to him a lot, either.”

A gloomy minute passed with everybody lost in their thoughts before someone tried to find a different subject to talk about and lift the general spirit, and they began their daily training.

§§§

Doctor Bosnic entered the room accompanied by an elder woman in tow.

She was wearing a hospital uniform, but she didn’t look exactly like a doctor. She was older than Doctor Bosnic, around forty, Luka guessed, but it was difficult to be sure, with her hair up in a severe chignon on the back of her head.

Her eyes were smart, and looked strikingly similar to Doctor Bosnic’s ones.

“Hello, Luka,” Doctor Bosnic greeted him.

They were on a first name basis by now, after a month and a half of seeing each other almost every day. Luka had insisted on it.

“Hello, doctor. Ma’am.”

“Luka, this is Vanja Bosnic, my sister. She’s the head of the rehabilitation group in our hospital, and she could be your referent for the upcoming sessions of physical therapy, too,” Doctor Bosnic explained. “Though, there is something else to consider.”

Luka looked at her interrogatively. “What do you mean?”

“There has been some, let’s say, pressure from your Spanish Club – sorry I can’t remember the name, I prefer ice hockey to football – and from our National Team as well. They all seem to agree that you be moved to a more, how can I put it, specialized structure, with staff specialized in treating sportsman like yourself. They have also already agreed on the name of the clinic, and I can give you all the detail if you need me to, but I’m sure your agent could do it if you called him,” she said, and Luka saw it as her gentle push for him to try and reconnect with the outside world.

“You’re in condition to be moved, now, and they are pushing for it. But the final word is your, of course,” Ema went on – he had to begin thinking of them by their first names, otherwise he would have to go for Dr. Bornic #1 and Dr. Bosnic #2.

“You have to also consider,” Vanja interjected for the first time, revealing a deep voice with an edge of authority in it that spoke of a woman that had made herself with hard work to gain her current status. “that the transfer, if you decide for it, should be made before the physical therapy begins. Of course, it’s possible to change therapists on the road of recovery, a lot of people does it, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Every specialist has their own method, and sometimes a change could cause more complications than benefices for the patient,” she explained.

Luka stayed silent for a moment, taking his time to analyze their words. Ever since the accident, he was a bit more sluggish than before because of the headaches that always hoovered on his brain, but he was also slowly learning how to find new ways around this obstacle. The two doctors waited patiently.

“If I were to decide to go to this clinic, and this is only a hypothesis, what would I find there? Better specialists? More innovative methods for a faster recovery?” he asked.

He didn’t wish to provoke them with his words, and they saw it.

“A different method and a faster recovery, yes, probably,” Vanja said, sincerely. “Better specialists, I doubt.”

“So, you would go?”

“No. You see, Mr. Modric-“

“Luka, please.”

“As you wish. You see, Luka, an innovative method doesn’t necessarily mean a _better_ method. And a faster recovery doesn’t necessarily equal to a _better_ recovery. Sometimes, it just means that things are rushed to do the interest of those who are paying – the Clubs, the sponsors – and not of the patient. Sometimes we see a fast recovery, seemingly flawless, and the sportsman resumes his career right where they had to leave it, as if nothing happened. But what people don’t see, is that it usually doesn’t last. It begins with aches in the joints, slowly spreading to the whole area that had been interested by the original injury, and make it difficult to perform even the easiest tasks, which are the ones we do every day, prolongedly. It’s deleterious for the body, and for the mind in my humble opinion, because both need their time to recover, and it usually is a longer time than the one contemplated in those clinics. So, no, I wouldn’t go. And that’s my opinion as a seasoned professional.”

Luka stood silent, torn between the two options in front of him.

He wanted to get better, fast. He wanted to be able to use his left leg again, to walk more than the four steps that separated him from the bathroom. He wanted to run, go back to the pitch.

But he also wanted it to last. What use would it be, to burn like a meteor only to die once again in a short time? If he forced his body to overcome the trauma only to have it crumble under the stress within a few years, he would lose everything again and gain nothing at all.

“And here, do you think I could reach the same results as in that clinic? I’m referring to the recovery and to going back to the pitch, even if in a longer span of time,” he asked.

Vanja studied him for a moment, as if surprised by the fact that he had not yet dismissed them, as if she was expecting him to immediately agree to be transferred to another center as soon as the option was brought up.

“In time and with hard work, yes, I do think so,” she nodded, expression open and sincere.

“Why don’t you think about it,” intervened Ema. “You’re not due to start your therapy for a few more days. Consult your coach, your agent. Listen to their opinions, too.”

Luka glanced from one woman to the other, then outside. It was raining, the autumn approaching. He’d been confined to this place for the past three and a half months, only leaving his room to undergo a surgery or a particular test.

Almost a third of the season had already gone by.

It was a lot of time, football-wise.

“I don’t need to. I already made my choice.”

It was nothing compared to a lifetime.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**12.25 – Ivano: Luka I didn’t buy you this phone just for you to use it as an item of decoration in your room.**

**12.26 – Ivano: Answer me, Luka.**

**12.28 – Ivano: RM is pissed off. Royally pissed off!**

**12.29 – Ivano: There was a shouting match today, they are seriously thinking of firing you.**

**12.29 – Ivano: Bloody hell, answer me!**

**12.30 – Luka: I was hitting the restroom. A man has his needs.**

**12.31 – Luka: I already know all of that. What do you really want to talk about?**

**12.32 – Ivano: The clinic, what else? It’s the only way we could keep them pleased.**

**12.33 – Luka: I already said no. Do you want to yell at me again?**

**12.34 – Ivano: I already apologized for that, but you piss me off so much sometimes, you’re full of bullshit these days and you know it.**

**12.35 – Ivano: Besides, I think you’re making a huge mistake Luka. I agree with RM and CNT about this. Sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s my opinion. That clinic is the best option for you.**

**12.36 – Ivano: You’re jeopardizing your career with your stubbornness!**

**12.37 – Luka: My career was jeopardized when they almost killed me on that road.**

§§§

“You know I can’t support you in this decision, right?”

“I know, coach. Sorry to disappoint.”

“You’re not. It’s your choice, you’re entitled to it.”

“Yes, I am.”

“But I’ll have to officially replace you now, Luka. You understand that, right?”

Luka stared at Zlatko, then nodded. “Yes, I do.”

§§§

Mario’s fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly with the compulsion to hit someone.

Claudio looked at him, unflappable, while he threw on a fresh shirt and a pair of jeans. Mario was still wearing his jersey, soaked wet with rain after the training, as he paced back and forth through the locker room, terrorizing the newest additions of the Juventus Club. It was standard for Mario these days, to be pissed off when he talked on the phone to one of his teammates from his NT.

Claudio couldn’t understand a single word he was saying, but he knew it was about the team’s captain, that midfielder he himself had faced more than once, the one who’s been in a serious accident last summer. He’d caught his name at least a dozen times today.

Also, the official note released today had been printed on every newspaper in Europe, and he’d read it this morning during breakfast. Luka Modric wasn’t part of the National Team anymore, and his place in Real Madrid was precarious at best.

“Everything okay?” he asked Mario when he ended the call.

Mario scowled and kicked a chair.

“No, Luka is being stupid again. No clinic, he decided. Hospital. Silly boy! Now they fire him,” Mario replied in his accented Italian before he went to hit the showers, people scrambling to get out of his way.

Claudio shrugged and left.

§§§

“Good morning, Luka. How are you doing today?” Vanja asked as she entered the room.

Her patient was sitting on his bed watching a political talk-show, and she was once again amazed by how tiny he was. No, she thought, tiny wasn’t the right way to describe him. More like, frail. Yes. There was something in Luka Modric that made him look frail these days. Maybe because he was so skinny, or maybe because he wasn’t very tall to be a man. Maybe because he didn’t smile a lot, and almost nobody came to visit him. He was an internationally acclaimed footballer, one would expect a big athlete with a sculptured body, surrounded by boisterous friends and a beautiful partner, while he was too lean for his own good, and wiry, oddly quiet and with no family in sight, nor friends – that was his own doing: he’d taken them off the list of allowed visitors, which had been admittedly short lived; her colleagues were still gossiping about it.

Thinking about it, Vanja pitied him a little. Luka had all the money in the world, but apparently no real connection with other people these days. He was doing his best to cut them all, and they were letting him do it. What a shame! She had read a few days ago the official note regarding his dismissal from their NT, it was a big news in Croatia after all, and she had thought bitterly that whoever it was that took these kinds of decisions, clearly knew nothing about how long the road of recovery was, full of bumps and obstacles to be overcome. It wasn’t a matter of days, it was a matter of months, sometimes years.

She pushed these kinds of thoughts away, concentrating to the present and the task at hands. After all, there was very little she could do about all that.

Today, Luka looked a little less pale than he’d been in the past weeks, but not less dejected. She hoped that beginning to regain full control of his body and its capacities would make him feel better, in time. Physical therapy was painful for the body, but beneficial for the mind.

“Good morning, Vanja. I’m fine, thanks. How’re you?” he asked, polite but detached as always.

“Good, thanks. So, are you ready to begin?”

§§§

Physical therapy was hell.

Pure, absolute, undisputable, unbearable hell.

Everything hurt after fifteen minutes on the very first day. His toe, his leg, his back, his butt, his neck, hell, even his face hurt!

All Luka’d been asked was to flex his toe against Vanja’s hand a few times in a sequence composed of three different movements while he sat on his bed.

After the completion of third arch, he’d tears in his eyes. He was panting like he’s just played a whole match, alone, against a team composed of eleven opponents, on a field located on the very top of Mount Everest. His longish hair was sticking to his forehead. He would need a hairband like the one he usually wore during matches, in the future.

Vanja had encouraged him the whole time but hadn’t made things easy for him. She wasn’t gentle like her sister, she wasn’t treating him like glass. She was pushing him and prompting him and by the time the fifteenth minute rolled around and he was trying to mask his groans and sobs, she looked at him severely and told him physical therapy was sacrifice and pain, and they were done for the day.

Luka fell asleep within minutes after she left and didn’t awake for dinner.

§§§

Vanja Bosnic had worked with a lot of patients, yet when she left Luka Modric’s room her hands were trembling.

She’d chastised him not because she needed to, but because _he_ needed her to.

He needed a push to get back on his feet.

He was depressed and sorry for himself, drowning in discontentment with himself and in an overeager sense of guilt for having let down his teams and his supporters. His coping method, it appeared, was isolating himself from others. One didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to see it wasn’t healty; Ema had drawn the same conclusions, as she had told her in confidence already before Vanja entered the scene officially. What Luka needed wasn’t someone to coddle him, Vanja thought. What he needed was someone to try and push him out of the hole he had fallen in.

So, yes, Vanja had chastised him, because he needed it and because it was for his own good. But, no, she really had no need to do it for herself.

Luka Modric was incredible in his dedication and his focus. He was the very first patient that had managed to work so hard during their very first session after such an important injury, making the session last up until a quarter of an hour, fifteen whole minutes using muscles left dormant for weeks, for months. And he’d done it without making too much of a scene also, with only a few moans of true pain that he couldn’t swallow despite his efforts, trying to hide his tears behind the curtain of his hair and the sweat on his cheeks. Also, she was sure that he would have kept trying to go on with the exercise, had she not decided to call it a day before he actually overworked himself and tore something in his leg.

Vanja had to re-think her impression of the athlete. He wasn’t a prima-donna, she already knew that much, but now she came to another conclusion. Luka Modric wasn’t frail, he was just broken. She could fix him.

She made a phone call.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**19.47 – Gareth: Hello Lukita. How are you doing? I hope everything is fine.**

**19.47 – Gareth: So, Kova told me that your coach Dalic told him that you began the PT yesterday. Man, that sucks. But I’m sure you’re doing great. As always.**

**19.48 – Gareth: Listen, I see this is a bad moment for you. We all know you’re feeling blue and we understand. I’m here, okay? I just want to let you know it. If you want to vent, to cry, to yell… anything. Just call me.**

**19.51 – Gareth: Anyway, I don’t know if you’re up to date with the latest gossip, but Marcelo decided it would be a good idea to prank Zizou … [4368 more words to complete the message]**

§§§

The second day, Vanja had Luka repeat the same exercise.

Then the third day, they added a second part to the exercise.

They did 15 minutes long sessions the whole first week.

Luka’s whole body ached the entire time. He was exhausted after each session, sweaty and fatigued. He cried more than once in pain and slept much more than he’d grown accustomed to; even his headaches were therein full force during each encounter.

Yet, on the sixth day, Luka managed to get up from the bed on his own and to stand, all alone. For the past months, he’d always had to rely on the on-call nurse to do that and to his crutches.

“You’re as agile as my grandmother, and she’s almost 99,” Vanja joked as she supported part of his weight and steadied him, who was swaying on his feet. He’d discovered she could be gracelessly funny and had a strange sense of humor that was actually refreshing.

On the sixth session, he laughed for the first time in as many days.

§§§

During the twentieth session, Luka crossed the distance from his bed to the toilet without the support of his crutches – his best and most reliable friends in the past few months. It was exactly eight steps, four to reach the toilet, and four to go back. He had to think about every single movement, how to put his weight slowly on his toe, how to plant the foot on the ground, his to bend his knee slowly.

Luka had to sit down on the closed toilet lid to breathe for five minutes before he could begin the long journey back to his bed, but he did it and even Vanja seemed ecstatic for once, even if it took him half an hour. She still forbade him from getting up and moving around on his own yet, claiming he would tear something if unsupervised.

§§§

After that, they moved the sessions to a different part of the hospital for three days a week. A nurse would escort Luka there on a wheelchair, and Vanja would have him practice different kinds of exercises – some involved walking on a tapis-roulant set to be inclined at different and growing percentages of height from the ground, simulating a hiking on the mountains; others saw him practice his equilibrium on different surfaces, trickier than the regular floor, like mattresses and sand boxes.

§§§

On the thirty-fifth day of PT, which happened to take place in Luka’s room, Luka crossed the threshold of his room on his own legs for the first time ever. He slowly made his way down the corridor, careful with each single step he took, and reached the vending machines there. The distance was exactly of twenty-three steps, some of of which (five, to be exact) had involved a flight of stairs right in front of the vending machines. It was the greatest effort he’d made in a very long time.

He took everything in as he slowly walked by – the dull colors of the place; the personnel going from room to room as various patients called them; the potted plants, probably fake, placed at the corner near the nurses’ station; the ugly yellow tiles on the lowest portion of the walls.

“I think I deserve a reward for my hard work,” he joked as he and Vanja reached the vending machines and the few chairs placed nearby.

They both sat down, Luka tired yet somehow refreshed, Vanja professional as always by his side.

“Yes, I think you do,” she smiled, pleasantly surprised. It was the first time he started a joke since they had met.

“You want something?”

“No, thank you.”

He chose a black coffee with too much sugar, and at Vanja’s raised eyebrow replied with a shrug. Luka’d lost a lot of weight lately according to everybody he interacted with and also to the scale located in his bathroom, and even he could feel his tense skin clutching on his bones of his torso, his appearance resembling that of a scarecrow left for too many years in a corn field and exposed to the harsh summer sun and the blowing winter winds.

“A coffee, this late in the evening?” she asked.

Their meetings were scheduled at different hours each day. Today, it had begun a few minutes past 5 pm. It was now 6 o’clock.

“I’ll still sleep like a rock, as I do after every session,” Luka reassured her. “They’re tiring.”

“As they should be. And you’re actually doing a very good job if it’s of any consolation, I hope you can see it,” Vanja said as he retrieved the plastic cup. “It may not look like a lot for you, maybe, but your progress is very promising.”

Luka nodded noncommittally, staring off in the distance as he took a sip. He grimaced at the taste.

“This is the worst coffee I’ve ever had,” he exclaimed, avoiding any kind of observation related to Vanja’s latest affirmation.

She just raised her eyebrow.

“It’s a cheap vending machine in a public hospital, Luka. Really, what else did you expect?” she asked. “Also, please, don’t act like you didn’t hear me. I know you’re not as oblivious as you act.”

Luka sighed. She took no bullshit from anyone, he already knew. Still it was worth a try. He didn’t feel like facing this topic at the moment.

“I don’t know what to say. It really doesn’t seem like a lot. But I’m happy that I can move again, at least a little, without depending on someone else. I just -”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replied. At her unimpressed stare, he sighed. “I just wish I could be out there instead of inside here. Playing. Doing the thing I know. The thing I’m worth for.”

He looked outside, where dark clouds were promising a night full of rain. Summer was only a vague memory, the autumnal weather perfectly representing Luka’s state of mind. Winter was approaching faster than he wished, and with it the break that would allow his teammates – he didn’t know if he could still call them friends – to come back to their home country, and consequently, to him. He wasn’t ready for this.

“I don’t agree with that,” Vanja interrupted his thoughts. “On this note, I wished to talk to you about something. Two things, actually,” Vanja said as they got up, Luka careful not to move too fast, and began their way back to Luka’s room.

He made an inquiring noise, prompting her to go on. He had to concentrate too much on his steps to form proper sentences.

“The first thing is, you can go home if you wish, after next Monday’s surgery. I believe you will be ready. You can move autonomously, and I do believe it would do you some good to finally go back to your place, leaving these four walls.”

Luka stared at her in surprise, at a momentary loss for words. He’d never actively thought of leaving, knowing his inability to be autonomous and his lack of a family to rely on had been impediments too big to be overcome – until now. Yet now that Vanja mentioned it, he found that he was longing to leave, every cell of his body vibrating with the yearning to go back to his bed, his stuff, his little safe place.

He forced himself to focus back on Vanja, who was still talking.

“We will continue the physical therapy every day, of course. We could arrange for me to come at your place, to make it easier for you and to avoid eventual journalists, if you so wish. You’ll have to fill in an official request of course, but it’s an understatement to say it’s merely for the sake of bureaucracy,” she explained.

“That would be… perfect,” he croaked.

“You must be thrilled.”

And he was. He really, really was. His body trembled in excitement, and Vanja had to help him crossing the last steps that separated him from his bed.

“I am.”

“Good,” she said, seemingly pleased – he didn’t know whether with today’s session, or with his general eagerness. “The second thing is, I think you should really consider meeting a specialist to talk.”

Luka stilled in his motions to sit on the bed. “What about?” he asked.

She fixed him with a serious stare. “You.”

§§§

“Hello Coach! This is Ivan."

“Hello. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Listen, I’m calling about Luka’s surgery. How did it go?”

“It lasted longer than expected, but the specialist is optimistic.”

“Thank God. Did you see him?”

“Briefly, yes. He was still under the effects of the sedatives, a bit confused, but he looked well, relatively speaking and all considering. Better than the last time he underwent an operation.”

“I’m happy to hear that, Coach. I’ll let everybody know.”

§§§

Luka’s surgery went exceptionally well, to the point his team of doctors were enthusiast with the results.

The day after it, Luka put weight on his foot for five minutes, always under the watchful eyes of Vanja.

It hurt like a bitch, but he was expecting that much.

§§§

They resumed the PT. On the second day, Vanja threw a pair of swimming pants at him – hitting him square in the jaw – and took him to an indoor pool where he spent his time walking in the water.

§§§

Ten days later, they cleared him to finally go home.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**21.17 – Mateo: Sorry to bother your evenings guys, but I just heard from coach Dalic. Luka’s been officially cleared to go home tomorrow! I just thought you’d wish to know.**

**21.18 – Marcelo: Oh Dios, thank you. I swear I’m crying.**

**21.18 – Isco: Yeah! Way to go Lukita! *thumbs up***

**21.19 – Cristiano: Good news finally! Thanks for letting us know.**

**21.20 – Sergio: :))) I fucking knew it! That stubborn SOB!**

**21.20 – Garteh: Yes! Yesyesyesyes! :D**

**21.20 – Isco: Is he coming back to Madrid?**

**21.21 – Mateo: No, he’s staying for more PT. He can walk but nothing more, as far as I know.**

**21.22 – Marcelo: Oh, okay…**

**21.22 – Mateo: Yes, I know how you feel... Sorry. He can be so stubborn sometimes.**

**21.25 – Cristiano: But you’re flying back there for the Christmas holidays?**

**21.26 – Mateo: I think so. Why?**

**21.28 – Cristiano: If you see him, I want you to video-call us. No matter the time, or where we will be, we will answer. Promise!**

**21.29 – Gareth: Wonderful idea! I’ll always keep my phone switched on.**

**21.30 – Toni: Yes please, Kova, do that! I miss Luka.**

**21.32 – Mateo: I don’t know guys, it depends on whether he will see me or not. I’ll certainly try.**

**21.33 – Sergio: That’s all we ask.**

§§§

Nurse Milena said she’d been giving haircuts to all her younger siblings and cousins ever since she was fourteen. Now with three decades of practice under her belt, she considered herself better than any hairdresser in town. She’d once told Luka about that much, during his first days of PT as she escorted him around on the wheelchair, and he still remembered it. That’s why he asked her for a long-overdue haircut.

He’d never been fop, yet he couldn’t deny that the nest he was spotting on one side his head was not only unaesthetic, but also unpractical. Not even his hairband could control the strands of hair flying left and right at his every movement – the only option left was a man-bun. The other side, the one where he’d had surgery and bandages all over for a month and a half, was showing three centimeters-long hair, a stark contrast against the other side. He looked like Cruella DeVil from the old Disney movie.

Still, had he known what was awaiting him, he would have kept his hair as they were.

When Milena left the room and Luka went to pee, he glanced at himself in the bathroom’s small mirror, and almost had a heart attack at his own reflection. He stood there for a few minutes, coming to the conclusion that he looked like an idiot. Also, he really, sincerely hoped that Milena’s siblings and cousins had been luckier than him.

The temptation to call another nurse and ask to be shaved, completely bald like Zizou was, had been extremely strong.

§§§

Later that morning, when Vanja and Ema came to see him off and give him the discharge papers, they laughed so much they cried, apologizing – unconvincingly – only at Luka’s frown.

§§§

Luka Modric left the hospital today after four months of hospitalization. The footballer will continue the recovery from his own home, the hospital says. Read more.

Exclusive! Click here to see pictures of Luka Modric getting off the taxi that brought him home spotting a decisively unconventional haircut.

§§§

Luka paid the taxi and grabbed the bag containing his few belongings from the hospital before he got out of the car. He was wearing loose trousers and one of the t-shirts Ivano had gently brought him when he had first awoken, four months ago. It was too big for his frame now, hanging on his shoulders. He was also wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses, despite the day being cloudy and foggy.

He knew there would be photographers outside the gates of his residence and he didn’t want to give them any kind of interesting material. The least they had, the sooner they would leave him alone.

As Luka got off the taxi, he saw their cameras’ flashes and heard them screaming his name in order to get his attention, but he ignored them and inserted the alpha-numerical code that opened the entrance door.

As soon as he got in, a sense of security wrapped him like a blanked, warm and welcomed. It was the feeling of coming home.

Luka closed the door behind him, and looked around at the familiar space; everything was exactly where it should be, tidy and well-ordered. He would have to thank the society that took care of the cleaning, because everything was exactly like he’d left it, immaculate; even the heating had been turned on, and the house was pleasantly warm. A quick check told him the fridge was stocked with fresh vegetables and fruit, and the cupboard had pasta and rice inside it, surely thanks to Ivano.

He walked gingerly to his bedroom and sat down in one of the armchairs there, thoroughly exhausted. The day had been long and tiring, forcing him to move more than he was used to. His head was pounding, and his ankle and knee hurt, but he was home and for a few moments, he felt like everything was alright.

He closed his eyes and took a mid-afternoon nap.

§§§

When Luka awoke, it was dark outside. His nap had lasted way longer than expected, and his head was still hurting. He got up from the armchair and walked to the kitchen in a foul mood, deciding to only eat an apple. He wasn’t that hungry and couldn’t be bothered to actually cook something. He didn’t even switch on the lights.

Luka turned on the tv in the living room out of boredom, the only luminous source in the ample open space; he switched from channel to channel as he looked for something interesting to see, maybe a nice movie. He made a mental note to update his Netflix queue with the latest releases.

As he was scrolling through the list of channels available, he lingered on the one showing the news. The particular piece streaming regarded none other than himself.

It was a piece filmed today, of him getting out of the taxi and springing towards the house, and it didn’t last more than a bunch of seconds. It wasn’t the first time Luka saw himself on tv, in his line of work it was actually pretty common, yet he felt a pang of aversion towards the person showed in the images.

He knew he’d never resembled the epitome of classic beauty usually associated to the common image of professional athletes, but the man on the screen was different from the man he knew he’d been. He looked a bit hunched, and too thin as he half walked, half hopped towards the door, his back to the cameras. His skin was clammy and pale, his hair – hidden underneath the cap – unkempt, just like his clothes. Luka had seen his face in the small bathroom mirror of his room back at the hospital, and had obviously seen his body and his limbs as he took showers, but the whole ensemble was even worse than he thought.

Half-eaten apple forgotten, Luka walked back to his bedroom and the connected en-suite bathroom, shed the clothes he was wearing down to the very last item, and stood naked in the room. Then, he switched on the lamps, all of them, unforgiving in their white light, and glanced at the full-height mirror behind the door. Never one to be bothered by nakedness, be it his own or others’, he felt sick looking at himself today. His skin was stretched over his boney arms and torso, and he could count his own ribs. His left leg was a crisscross of scars, from his foot to well up over his knee thanks to the accident and the following surgeries, as was his collarbone all over the right side. The bags underneath his eyes were dark as bruises, and his complexion was pasty in a way that wasn’t healthy.

Luka felt nauseous, and only his quick reflexes made him reach the toiled and lift the lid in time to throw up what little he had in his stomach without making a mess. His abdominal muscles spasmed, and a throbbing pain raged behind his eyes. He fell on his knees and felt something tear in his leg.

§§§

“How did you manage to do this?” Vanja asked the following day.

It wasn’t a scheduled session; Luka had called her on her private number that morning, asking her to swing by if she could. She’d heard something in his voice that had put her on alert, and had rushed to his house immediately.

Luka looked outside, where a pale sun was trying to make its way through the clouds, and stood silent. He looked dejected like he did when they had first met.

“Luka,” Vanja urged him.

He squeezed his eyes, a telltale sign that his head was hurting.

“I fell on my knees.”

“How? Did you lose your balance? Was it a sudden vertigo?” she frowned with worry, checking him again with a critical clinical eye. “Or your leg gave way all of a sudden?”

“No, I, uh, threw up. And fell on my knees.”

She fixed him with a hard look. She didn’t like his tone, his evasiveness.

“Why?” Vanja asked, but he didn’t reply. “Luka, why? Answer me.”

“Nothing, I wasn’t feeling well.”

He didn’t offer anything else, and Vanja gave up: she knew a lost cause when she saw one.

Sighing, she motioned for him to pull down the hem of his trousers and got up from her crouched position. She passed a hand through her hair, for once hung in a ponytail instead of the usual chignon, and thought that she needed a coffee with a ton of whipped cream on it.

She sat down on the sofa in front of Luka.

“This is going to set us back of a month on our schedule,” she said and he winced.

“That bad?”

“Yes, I’m sorry”

He shrugged. “Not your fault.”

“No,” she agreed. “Not mine.”

His sharp eyes met hers.

“What do you mean? I didn’t do it on purpose,” he stated.

Vanja raised her eyebrow.

“Are you so sure about that?” she challenged him, and he lowered his gaze.

It was answer enough for her.

“I think you should really talk to someone, Luka.”

He shook his head stubbornly, lips pressed in a thin line.

“It would be for your own good. This isn’t going to magically get better,” she warned him. “What use is it, if you recover physically but recede emotionally? How long ‘till something like this happens again, ‘till something sets you off so much you’ll hurt yourself, knowingly or not?”

Luka didn’t reply, inhaling sharply and squeezing his nose between two fingers, his body pulsating with tension.

“Because let me be completely honest here,” she went on, unrelenting. “something _is_ going to happen that will set you off, and you can’t afford any more incidents. It would make all our work vain, and you know what? I don’t like seeing months of hard work thrown out the window because you’re too proud, or too stubborn, or too ashamed to take the matter into your own hands.”

Luka shook his head in denial, his hand finding his hair and making even more a mess of them; it was one of his nervous habits.

“I don’t want to,” he mumbled, voice trembling.

“You have to,” she stated, in a tone that didn’t leave much room for discussion. Because she was right, she knew it, and probably Luka did, too.

They stood there, silently facing each other as the clock kept ticking. Then, he let out the breath he was holding, and with the exhale the tension left his body, which sagged against the cushions, slumped like a ragdoll, no more fight left in it. Luka looked up and met her eyes, and Vanja saw tears in his, desperation, pain and something else, repulsion maybe, so deep it seemed bottomless and actually scared her.

“Give me the number.”

§§§

Luka made the call three days later, and met his new therapist the day after that.

She was a middle-aged woman, blonde and soft-looking, much taller than him. She had sharp eyes and a hoarse voice that indicated a greedy smoker.

He spent the first hour talking to her trying and failing to contain his tears of rage, frustration, desperation. Luka couldn’t believe that voicing it all out loud could be so painful.

Her name was Sofia, and she patiently handed him handkerchiefs and listened to his rant, occasionally interrupting him to ask a question aimed to go into more detail on certain points. She officially diagnosed his depressive disorder. Surprisingly, she said it had begun planting its seeds much earlier than when the accident, which had only exacerbated it, had happened.

She agreed to work with him three days a week.

§§§

Vanja smiled when he said he’d met the therapist and would keep on their encounters, and by unspoken agreement, they never talked about it again.

They resumed the PT, working either in his living room, in his pool, or, when the weather allowed it, outside in the backyard. The options were various and numerous, thanks to a series of expensive yet obligatory purchases that Luka had taken care of before he left the hospital.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**10.15 – Domo: Hey guys, who’s coming home for the holidays?**

**10.17 – Ivan: I am. I’ll take a plane on Christmas Eve.**

**10.18 – Mateo: I am.**

**10.18 – Mario: Me too, same day. Why?**

**10.20 – Domo: Want to meet for New Year’s Eve? Party at my place!**

**10.21 – Sime: Will there be Domacica?**

**10.22 – Domo: Duh, of course budalo.**

**10.23 – Sime: Then count me in! Oh, and Dejan too.**

**10.24 – Ivan: I’m in. Mario?**

**10.25 – Mario: Yes. I’ll bring the alcohol. You fools can’t be trusted with such an important thing.**

**10.26 – Vedran: Count me in. @Mario you’re an asshole.**

**10.26 – Danijel: Sorry guys, I’ll be at my cousin’s. Have a drink for me, I hate her.**

**10.27 – Ante: @Suba Uh, that sucks man, sorry for you! @Domo I’m in.**

**10.27 – Mateo: I’m in, too. Will you also contact Luka?**

**10.32 – Ivan P.: I’m not so sure he wants to hear from us, Mateo.**

**10.34 – Domo: I’ll send him a message anyway, see if he replies.**

§§§

By the time Christmas rolled around, Luka had recuperated almost every progress lost in what he’d begun to refer to, in his head, as the bathroom incident.

He’d also ordered a few presents online, for Ivano, Vanja and Ema. He’d added a bottle of wine for Sofia and Zlatko too, almost on a whim.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**00.01 – Marcelo: Merry Christmas, Luka. *hugs***

Ping! One new message.

**00.14 – Ivan: Merry Christmas. I miss you, bro.**

Ping! One new message.

**00.25 – Mateo: Merry Christmas, Luka!**

Ping! One new message.

**08.13 – Ivano: Merry Christmas.**

Ping! One new message.

**08.33 – Cristiano: Hey Lukita, Merry Christmas. I hope to hear from you soon.**

Ping! One new message.

**08.35 – Danijel: Merry Christmas brate.**

Ping! One new message.

**08.47 – Gareth: Merry Christmas Lukita, I hope you’ll have a nice day. It’s snowing here! (I’m home in Wales). I made a snowman! It’s almost as ugly as the one you made last year. ALMOST.**

Ping! One new message.

**09.05 – Sergio: Merry Christmas asshole.**

Ping! One new message.

**09.17 – Dejan: Merry Christmas Luka. Sime misses you. Call him.**

Ping! One new message.

**09.21 – Sime: Dejan misses you too, he’s just too proud to admit it!**

**09.22 – Sime: Uh, Merry Christmas by the way.**

§§§

Luka switched on his phone well past eleven am.

He found it full of messages of well wishes from his friends.

For a brief moment, he considered deleting them all and turning it off. What could he say to them? He’d avoided them for months. He’d acted like an asshole, self-centered and egoistic. He didn’t deserve their kindness, their affection.

Yet they were still there giving it to him, despite everything. Showing him that they still cared.

Luka’s thumb hovered over the screen.

Then he slowly tapped out a reply, and sent it to all of them.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**11.23 – Luka: Merry Christmas guys. Have a nice day. I miss all of you.**

§§§

Domo invited Luka to go to his New Year’s party, but he refused. It was still too early, still too much. At least, he’d replied to the message instead of deleting it, and he was surprised by how much he felt better at that, how much of a burden it had actually been, avoiding the people he loved and surely wounding them in such way for months. At the beginning, he’d felt like it was better for him, to isolate himself, while in reality it was not. Social anxiety, Sofia had called it. She’d explained it was a bitch to control, an easy trap to fall into, a difficult hole to get out of, but he could do it; she’d given him some advices to make it easier for him – slowly, one step at a time. Now, he knew better than to repeat the same mistakes again.

So, Luka also kindly replied to Mateo’s message, where the kid, always the sweetest one, was asking him for a coffee, explaining that the whole team back in Spain had asked him for a video-call. Luka declined the invitation, but took a selfie and sent it to Mateo, with the caption “ _for the team_ ”.

It was a bit blurry, the angle was completely wrong, and he hadn’t shaven in three days, but he knew they would be happy to receive it nonetheless if Mateo’s long reply was anything to go by. He had actually managed to smile without it feeling forced, and in his hand he was holding a piece of paper with _hala madrid_ written in black ink.

§§§

New Years’ Eve came and went.

Luka saw the fireworks from the balcony.

The first week of January rolled by, punctuated by the PT’s sessions with Vanja and the therapy with Sofia.

His headaches lessened fractionally.

§§§

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello. My name’s Luka, I would like an appointment within the end of the week if possible.”

“Of course. Will Thursday 4pm be okay for you, Sir?”

“Yes, thank you. See you then.”

“Have a good day, Sir. See you on Thursday.”

§§§

Luka Modric spotted leaving his house today. See the pictures here.

New haircut for Luka Modric? The footballer has been seen downtown today spotting a previously unseen haircut.

§§§

It was strange, to have such short hair.

At least, now they all had the same length. And they didn’t get in his eyes anymore. He didn’t even need a hairband – for now.

“Milena was really gloomy today,” Vanja told him in the evening. “She said you betrayed her for a more famous yet not as capable hairdresser.”

“What would you say?”

“That I couldn’t blame your choice, but still her haircut was much more original than this one.”

They both snorted.

Original was an understatement.

§§§

Luka began going for long walks after dinner, as the days slowly got longer. It helped with his newfound mobility, and it was a nice way to evade from his every day routine. The weather was still too cold for his liking, yet he found solace in it. He wore heavy winter clothes, and a beanie was enough for people not to notice nor recognize him.

He usually went to one of the largest parks of the city, located a couple of kilometers from his house, and sometimes wandered to the seaside. Walking on the beach barefoot was a challenging exercise, one Vanja affirmed to be really helpful albeit very strenuous. Luka could feel his body finding his strength again, his muscles slowly becoming more toned. Sometimes he would stop on a café on the way and order an apple juice. Once, he even drank hot cocoa. Once, he kicked the ball back to a kid who’d put a bit too much enthusiasm into throwing it while playing with his mom.

From time to time, he spotted something that caught his attention; sometimes, he even took a picture with his phone. They were usually the trees in the park, sometimes a dog wandering around with their owner on the phone jogging behind them on the beach, or a squirrel looking down at him from the height of a tree’s branches on his street.

§§§

On Valentine’s day, Vanja patted his shoulder at the end of their session. It was earlier than usual, but she had a dinner with her husband to get dressed for.

“I believe you’ll be ready to begin a light form of training within a month,” she said. At his dumbstruck expression, she clarified. “On the pitch.”

He was aware he’d been making good progress, but this was simply unexpected.

To go back on the pitch… so he’d actually made it, he’d actually managed to recover.

Luka broke down in sobs as soon as she left.

It had been seven months since his accident.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**21.07 – Luka: Hello, coach. Can we meet for a coffee next week? Please let me know. Bye.**

**21.10 – Zlatko: Of course. Usual place?**

§§§

They met on a Sunday morning for breakfast in a small café not far from the facility where the NT usually trained. The staff there knew them all by now and was unperturbed by their presence. This guaranteed them a nice level of privacy and the opportunity to actually speak without being interrupted more than strictly necessary.

Luka was wearing new clothes, Zlatko noticed, ones that were the right size for him. His hair was very strange with this new haircut, shorter than he’d been used to see, but they suited him.

“I’m coming back,” Luka blurted without preambles after the waiter brought them their drinks of choice.

Zlatko choked on his tea. He put the mug down and wiped his chin in a napkin.

“Ivano didn’t tell me anything about this, last time I spoke to him,” he croaked.

“He doesn’t know, yet. I wanted to tell you first.”

“How? Not that I’m not happy, mind me. I’m just- surprised.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I understand this is surprising to say the least. Last week Vanja told me I can resume training, lightly, in about a month. She’s satisfied with the progress I’m making, she thinks I’m ready.”

“That’s really good news Luka. Truly. But, honestly, are you?” Zlatko enquired.

Luka bit his lip. “You’re not referring to my physical preparation,” he stated.

“No, I’m not. Sorry to pry, but I need to,” Zlatko explained.

Luka let out a sigh.

“No, no I mean, it’s reasonable. I- I know in the last few months I’ve not been… myself, let’s say. And you’re worried I won’t be able to sustain the pression, mentally. I understand,” Luka said. He cleared his throat. “I’m, uh, seeing someone. A therapist. Vanja and Ema suggested her. She’s, uh, helping me. Her name’s Sofia.”

Luka bit his lip again, his fingers scratching the back of his head. He was nervous, Zlatko could see it. Whether it was for embarrassment, or for a difficulty in approaching this particular subject, Zlatko didn’t know.

“That’s actually pretty good, Luka. I would’ve suggested it, too, but I think you wouldn’t have listened,” he said.

Luka blushed and averted his eyes, but he nodded. Honestly, it was true.

“Yeah, well…” he shrugged. “It’s still something new, just, three months more or less since we began.”

Zlatko nodded with a smile. “Why tell me though, and not your agent?” he asked, curiously.

“I- Okay, truth is, I don’t know if I still have a place in this team. Nor in RM, but that’s another story, the next problem I will face. And this, _this_ is something I need to know from you, not from Ivano: do I still have a place in the NT, if I come back? Or not? I know I’m out of shape right now, and I probably won’t be ready before the beginning of next season, but let’s just assume I make it. Will I still have a place then? Please, be honest with me.”

Zlatko studied Luka for a moment. He still had a limp in his step that Zlatko didn’t like, still had to wear dark sunglasses against the barely-there sun to fight off his headaches. He was still too skinny, still too pale, but there was something that had been lacking in the previous months. There was a spirit that hadn’t been there, a need and a desire burning in him that showed a man left buried for too long underneath a pile of troubles. A man who had not given up, who was now ready to resurface and come back to life. He’d needed time, and help, but he was still there.

“When do we start?” Zlatko just asked.

§§§

By mid-March, Vanja officially deemed him ready to resume training with other specialists. She’d talked to Ivano, Zlatko and Zidane in the past couple of weeks. She wished to make sure the transition from one specialist – she – to a new one who had a specific preparation in Luka’s field of work would be as smooth as possible.

Vanja and Ivano had spent a few days with both coaches, interviewing and evaluating each single member of the medical crew of both Croatian NT and Real Madrid – the higher ups had apparently reluctantly approved his return, conceding him a chance. It had been Ivano’s request that whoever he would have to work with from now on be deemed appropriate for the job by the woman who had helped Luka ‘till now. In the end, they had agreed on three specialists – Francisco and Nikola part of the RM crew, Alex of the NT’s – who seemed to be best for the beginning of Luka’s training, after eight months of forced break.

Luka thanked Vanja profusely, and they hugged on their very last session of PT. The following day, he would fly to Madrid and begin the second part of his recovery over there.

The news was been immediately communicated to his sponsors. It reached the newspapers within minutes, and the internet within half an hour.

Luka Modric was coming back.

§§§

Ping! One new message.

**12.02 – Sergio: Zizou, is it true???**

**12.04 – Zidane: Ramos, I already told you not to call me Zizou! I’ll have you run laps for two hours tomorrow, I swear to God!**

**12.05 – Ramos: Okay, but is it true or not?**

**12.06 – Zidane: You’re impossible. But yes, it is.**

**12.07 – Ramos: Why didn’t you tell me????**

**12.08 – Zidane: Ever heard of something called discretion? Also, you’re giving me a headache.**

**12.09 – Ramos: I could’ve thrown a party! I would’ve invited you, you know monsour?**

**12.10 – Zidane: That’s one of the many reasons why I did NOT, in fact, tell you.**

**12.11 – Zidane: Also, it’s monsieur, you idiot!**

§§§

Luka Modric landed in Madrid one hour ago. See exclusive pictures of the midfielder at the airport here.

Modric to undergo medical tests, announces RM.

§§§

Marcelo was pacing back and forth, vibrating with barely-controlled energy.

Toni scowled at him. “Will you stop? You’re giving me a headache!” he barked.

“Sorry. I’m nervous,” Marcelo shrugged, keeping on his pacing.

“Dude, we all are,” Isco said. He couldn’t stop his leg from jumping up and down in a nervous tic.

Gareth and Mateo just nodded, both of them already having a lump in their throat that was threatening to burst even before Luka arrived.

The midfielder had undergone some medical tests in the previous three days, under strict orders from the higher ups to avoid any contact with his teammates until he was officially cleared and deemed fit to begin his rehabilitation. They’d officially communicated him the good news yesterday evening; Zidane, who’d been there the whole time, had taken it upon himself to tell the team. Today, they would see their friend for the first time in months.

“Okay but, what do we say? Like, I haven’t seen him in almost a year!” Marcelo went on.

Sergio groaned. “None of us have, Marce. Stop being a schoolgirl waiting for her crush to come pick her up.”

Cristiano snorted, but then the door opened, and they all shut up, a strange tension permeating the room.

Luka’s figure appeared in the entrance. He was carrying a bag, wearing casual clothes and sunglasses and spotting a new haircut. He smiled at them all, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Hello guys. Nice to see you all,” he said, voice low and slightly trembling.

He’d yet to complete the sentence, and Marcelo was already throwing himself at him, hugging him tightly, squeezing him like his life depended on it.

“You’re an asshole, you’re a fucking asshole, and I hate you,” he said, harsh words in stark contrast with his embrace, lips pressed on Luka’s head as he cried not-so-subtly.

Luka slowly raised his arms to return the embrace, gently squeezing the overwhelmed Brazilian.

“No, you don’t, but I’d understand if you did,” he whispered.

Marcelo broke down in loud sobs and kissed Luka’s head, squeezing him again in his arms and lifting his – considerably lessened – weight, making Luka laugh out loud.

That was everyone else’s clue to join in.

Sergio not-so-gently pried Marcelo away from the Croat, slapping Luka’s face affectionately. “Welcome back, asshole,” he said, hugging him tightly.

“Thanks, Sese. Sorry, for everything,” Luka said, but Sergio just shook his head.

“Yeah, I know. We’ll talk about it later, okay?” Sergio let him go for now, only for him to be engulfed in a wordless hug by Cristiano.

The rest of the team gathered around him next, in loud cheers and greetings, everyone wishing to welcome him back with a hug of a handshake, even the couple of new guys he’d actually yet to play with, having arrived only after his sudden departure.

Last were left Gareth and Mateo, with whom Luka spent a bit longer talking.

He hugged the tall Welsh first. “Thank you, Gaz. I know I never called you back, but I read your messages, and I want you to know I really appreciated them a lot.”

“Don’t mention it, Lukita.”

“No, I- uh, I have to apologize for the way I acted. I was an idiot.”

Gareth squeezed him tightly. “It’s okay,” he said softly.

And then, there was Mateo. Kova, his friend and fellow Croat, the sweetest kid Luka had ever met, the one who’d tried multiple times to contact him, only for Luka to avoid him repeatedly. “I’m deeply sorry,” he apologized, again. He probably had to apologize with each single person he knew, he thought. “You were so kind, and I just- I was so selfish. I’m sorry.”

Mateo shook his head. He didn’t say anything, but he held onto Luka for longer than anyone else.

§§§

A normal day in Madrid went like this:

\- For the first two months since Luka came back:

  * Morning: two hours of training with the specialists (Francisco and Nikola) in charge of his recovery in the gym, carrying out various exercises. Weekly reports to Alex in Croatia, to let him know how he was doing; weekly tests to assess his improvement. He had to reinforce not only his leg, but his whole body; daily, they had him do laps in the swimming pool, rounds outside, exercises in the gym with the weighted balls.
  * Lunch break: usually spent with his teammates, Luka doing his best to integrate more calories in his diet and getting re-acquainted with everything he’d lost and missed so much during his forced permanence in Croatia. They made a point to never let him on his own.
  * Early afternoon (three days a week): video-call to Sofia, from his own room in the Real Madrid City in Valdebebas, where he’d agreed to stay in order to avoid the reporters and have better access to anything he might need. He was under straight observations for a series of reasons – sleep patterns, diet, physical and mental recovery, migraines and headaches- and this accommodation made everything easier both for him and the staff who was following him.
  * Early afternoon (three days a week): afternoon nap in the communal living room, much to everyone’s amusement. He’d come to discover naps helped him a lot with the headaches.
  * Mid-afternoon: more training in the gym with the specialists, much like in the morning.



\- For the following month and a half:

  * Morning: two hours of training with the specialists in charge of his recovery in the gym, carrying out various exercises. Weekly flights to Croatia for a couple of days to meet Alex, and have him assess personally how he was doing, carrying out more PT over there. The exercises were becoming gradually more complicated and exerting, but sometimes they involved a football and wasn’t Luka ecstatic about that?
  * Lunch break: usually spent with his teammates or, when in Croatia, with Alex or Zlatko. Luka had to keep forcing himself to integrate more calories in his diet but it was getting gradually easier over time. He was re-discovering the joys of food.
  * Early afternoon (two days a week): video-call to Sofia, from his own room in the Real Madrid City in Valdebebas. They had agreed to lower the numbers of session after Luka had done what she had claimed was a huge step forward, deciding to contact each and every one of his teammates of the NT, without needing any prompting from Zlatko nor any suggestion from Sofia, and organizing a reunion that summer after the end of the seasonal championship.
  * Early afternoon (four days a week): afternoon nap in the communal living room, much to everyone’s perplexity: _how could such a small man snore so much?_ No wonder Sergio had asked to be moved to another room down the corridor, claiming he couldn’t sleep in the one next to Luka’s.
  * Mid-afternoon: training, on the field, with his teammates. Finally.



§§§

Marcelo cried when he saw Luka’s scars for the first time as they hit the shower after training.

(So did, a few months later, both Danijel and Ivan).

Luka just patted his back consolingly, shaking his head fondly.

“Women love scars,” he joked. “Men, too.”

The whole room laughed.

§§§

Ivan and Danijel were the firt one who sprang into Luka's arms and hugged him so tightly he thought he would suffocate. Then the rest of the team joined them in a pile of limbs and smiles and kisses.

Mario swore on his mother’s honor that he absolutely did _not_ cry at the reunion when he hugged Luka.

Sime had audio and video proofs witnessing that he’s a lying liar who lies.

Dejan spilled 100€ from Mario in exchange for him not sending the video to any of the fangirls on Tumblr.

Then he sent it to Domo, who published it himself using his fake account.

(Dejan had promised not to send it to the fangirls, he hadn’t mentioned anything about his teammates, and how could it be his fault if Domo himself _was_ one of the fangirls? _He just didn’t know!_ )

The video broke the internet.

Luka cried for forty minutes straight with laughter when Vedran sent him the link, and had a screenshot printed and framed sent to the whole team.

Zlatko hang it in the locker room.

§§§

Ten months after the last time he had taken part in a match, Zidane had Luka play for 20 minutes during a friendly with AC Milan.

As he warmed up in front of the public and the press, Luka felt at ease, like he’d never had to stop. It was natural like breathing, and refreshing like breaking the surface of the sea after having been underwater for slightly too long.

§§§

_Luka-Luka-Modric-Modric_

_Luka-Luka-Modric-Modric_

§§§

Luka surely wasn’t the hero of the match.

He didn’t score, and he didn’t provide the decisive assist.

When the whistle blew, his head was throbbing and he was tired.

He shook hands with their opponents, hugged his teammates, avoided the journalists, walked to the showers and got on the bus that would take them to the airport, where he promptly fell asleep after swallowing one of his pills, with a small smile on his lips.

He hadn’t been the man of the day, but he’d been there.

§§§

Three months later, he played 90 minutes nonstop, as captain of his NT in a friendly against Poland.

He provided the assist that generated the first goal of the match. The following one was a masterpiece from Mario, four minutes before the ending whistle; Luka kicked the ball for him from the corner.

Croatia won, 2-0.

He jumped into Danijel’s open arms, screamed with Ivan and cried on his own in the shower, tears mingling with the steaming water, headache forgotten.

It had taken Luka more than a year, going to hell and back; but that day, he’d been there, on that pitch, in that match.

He was home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, if you made it this far. I sincerely hope it was worth it. Please, let me know what you think: kudos and reviews always make my day, especially in this difficult period.  
> Come and talk to me on my tumblr, if you want :) [IceDrifter](http://www.icedrifter.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please, go and read the amazing story [Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010030) by the very talented SkyHighDisco, who was inspired by my fiction and sweetly describes Luka's naps and the team's interactions.


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